


1981: A Battle For The Human Race

by Olligreen



Category: I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-08-22 11:35:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16597088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Olligreen/pseuds/Olligreen
Summary: World-renowned scientists Dallon Weekes and Ryan Seaman discover the power of time travel, but, in doing so, attract some unwanted attention.





	1. A Fateful Performance

The hum of an amplifier, the soft pluck of a tuning bass, the tssk-tssk of an untamed snare drum -- ah, yes! The sounds of science! They echoed throughout the lab, against a vast variety of lab coats wandering about, flipping switches and pushing all sorts of buttonry. It was time, finally, for the experiment of a lifetime.

"Weekes?" Called a deep-voiced, but soft-mannered man from behind a panel of bleeps and bloops.

Dr. Weekes looked up from his basswork, only having gotten through three of the strings. "Yessir?"

"You're sure this is safe, correct? You are the expert, of course, but I just need to be--"

"Of course it's safe, Mr. Gonzo, I don't make poor decisions."

"Yes, of course, Doctor." He turned his attention to the man behind the more robust percussive apparatus. "And you, Dr. Seaman? That machinery--... Well, it's like nothing I've ever--"

"Perfectly safe." Dr. Seaman smiled softly, bringing the poor Mr. Gonzo some well-needed solace.

The three came to a silent agreement, and Gonzo headed off behind the camera. After little deliberation, they decided they would be filming this legendary event. How could they not, after all? It would be broadcast to all the televisions in all the world, and all would be there to see it: The first attempt at human-android interaction within the far less tampered-with realms of music. Musical instruments were objects untouched by many, simply out of fear, as one wrong pluck of a string, or one off-beat high-hat could send us all plummeting to oblivion. Only the most capable and educated scientists were allowed to use them, and even then it was a rather difficult and stressful affair. Regardless, the two musicians looked to each other with confident, albeit very different expressions.

"Shall we?" Asked Weekes, a smirk pulling at his lips.

"We shall." Seaman responded with a bright grin.

And so they did. First came the bass, a foreboding sound, quite low and rather bone-chilling. People's attention was pulled, as if by a string, to the noise. They physically could not look away. As it continued, small bits of stardust began to scatter through the air, but when touched, they simply disappeared. Next came a slow, quiet drum beat, testing the waters. With each tap, a tile on the floor changed color just slightly. As the taps became a rhythm, the colorful tiles began to wobble slightly, as if they were made of gel. The bass riff then shifted, and the stardust shot up to the ceiling, making it appear exactly like a night sky. The drums shouted and the room changed completely, the camera nearly falling to the floor as the ground below it became dirt, and grew grass. The room quickly morphed into a true outdoor scene, as if by magic. Birds flew above, a city loomed in the distance, and even still the lab coats were staring firmly at Dr. Weekes, fully under the spell of the instrument. Weekes leaned over and activated a switch, and the androids beside them hummed to life. Their cold, black photoreceptors blinked red, then focused in on the musicians. This moment would define generations of robot-human relations.

One of the three bots made a loud, brass noise and the others followed, harmonizing. They seemed to understand the music like a language. They continued, murmuring to each other, experimented with different tones, then after a few minutes, almost with hostile intent, all shouted at the same time.

Caught fully off guard, Weekes flinched a bit, then misplucked a string, sending him deep into the time-space continuum. Thankfully, he played a G chord just in time and was only temporally misplaced in a few unreachable dimensions. He returned to the song as if nothing had happened, although Seaman's playing was noticeably louder when he returned. Weekes could feel his bandmate's protective bass kicks, and thus gave him a thankful nod; however, Seaman was far too focused to notice.

The bots hummed violently, blooping their steam-filled hearts out as their photoreceptors glowed an unyielding red. Weekes' eyes flicked over, nervous, then he looked to the drummer. Still, Seaman was looking directly into the camera, his expression unreadable, but quite abnormal indeed. Weekes felt a distinctly negative feeling fill his chest, a poor mental state for music-playing.

A few calm minutes passed, excepting a few minor outbursts from the bots, but, from Weekes' expertise, he assumed that the androids' sudden change in demeanor was due to a malfunction. Perhaps it was caused by their cybernetic minds having an ill response to the bass' enchantment, or a misread of the confines of the room. Either way, it appeared to be over, and their song was nearly done. There was but one more thing to test. 

Weekes looked to his bandmate once again, and nothing had changed. He was staring at the camera, his eyes like voids. Something had gone horribly wrong with his friend, perhaps due to androids' malfunction. This experiment had to end very soon, before something was permanently broken in him. 

With a heavy heart, Weekes leaned forward into a microphone and began to sing. Voice, of course, was the most dangerous instrument of all. Communication in music was such a difficult task that even Dr. Weekes, a man who began playing the temperamental bass guitar without a second thought, was shaking a bit. The notes echoed from Weekes through an amplifier located to his left, which began to spark, and the air in the laboratory chilled. His eyes would occasionally point toward the bots, cautious. There was no telling what their reaction would be.

They hummed, just as before, and Weekes hypothesized that this was a sign of another impending malfunction. He sang louder, and the room chilled further, cooling it nearly twenty degrees. He wasn't sure how this would help, but he was quite desperate at this point. As the fates would turn, it helped nothing, and the bots' humming only became louder and more aggressive. Destruction was imminent, and all Weekes could do was focus. 

As expected, the three bots began screaming out in brass. The entire room trembled with the noise, and yet the two musicians remained steadfast. The sound only became louder, and the outdoor scene began to melt away, the sky fading to its true form of a plain white ceiling, and lab equipment growing between blades of grass. Weekes began feeling a sharp pain in his head, growing to feel as if his very skull was splitting in half. He fought through it as hard as he could, but eventually, he broke, stopping his playing dead. This would become a grave mistake, as the musicians were then launched back into the endless stream of time.

They floated, aging backward and forward, flying at light speeds, then not moving at all. Seaman, with his face still entirely blank, was letting himself be pulled and ripped by the tides of time, whilst Weekes fought against it to grab his friend's wrist. They lost and then found themselves, morphed together, then morphed apart, and ultimately flew out onto the same concrete ground.


	2. Friend or Foe?

Once he’d gotten familiar with the taste of cement, Dr. Dallon Weekes finally lifted himself off the ground and inspected his surroundings. “Ryan?” He muttered, his vision muddy.

Ryan Seaman stood to his left, pacing with his arms folded behind his back, far too deep in thought to notice his newly awoken companion.

“Ryan.” He said again, fully able to form thoughts now, then came questions. “Where are we?”

Finally, he turned, surprised, as if he’d never imagined Dallon could wake, or as if he’d forgotten him. “Mhm?” After a moment of distracted staring, Ryan’s eyes widened. “Oh! Yes, well I have no idea.”

“Good,” Dallon grumbled caustically, setting a hand on a particularly injured part of his chin.

Ryan raised a brow quizzically. “Good how?”

“It was sarcasm.” Dallon huffed out.

Ryan hummed, nodding as if he’d just learned something new.

Dallon sighed, crossing his arms. “So what’re we--”

He was interrupted by a hand around his neck, which pulled him into an alleyway. It was a struggle, a cacophony.

“Quiet down. They’ll hear you.” A woman’s voice whispered from behind him, and he became silent quite immediately.

Footsteps approached and Dallon dropped to the ground as the woman’s attention was drawn by a quite concerned Ryan. She aimed a weapon at him, her face like stone. “State your name and business.”

The two were frozen at the sight of her. Her black hair was curled, dressed up in this grand arrangement of a size they had never seen before. Her body was adorned in a neon bodysuit, something you might think an alien would wear; in fact, everything about her was alien.

Her gun hummed to life, alerting the two fellows that there was no time to ask questions. “Name and business, I won’t ask again.”

“Ryan Seaman. I’m a scientist.” He spat out, then looking to Dallon for confirmation.

He nodded, eyes wide. “Dallon Weekes. Quite the same.” 

The gun lingered, then dropped to her waist, clipping onto her belt. “What sort of scientists are you?” Her tone shifted to a more friendly one, mismatched with her intimidating demeanor.

“We’re musicians.” Dallon started, stepping cautiously in front of Ryan, who seemed rather unnerved by the weapon.

Her stance shifted and her eyebrows raised. “Musicians? You mean warriors.”

Dallon’s arms crossed, rather offended by the assertion. “No, I mean musicians. I’ll have you know, we haven’t fought once in our lives!” 

She snickered, making Dallon feel a bit silly. “Well, you’re warriors now.” She offered a hand, the same one that had been pointing weapons at them not two minutes ago. “Breezy Douglas. Nice to meet you, doctors.”

Dallon accepted the shake first, then Ryan, who was far less receptive to it.

“You  _ are _ doctors, right? That’s how it was back in your time. Back in the ’60s, that is.”

The musicians looked at each other, puzzled. “Whatever do you mean?” Dallon asked.

Breezy paused, taking a moment to understand their confusion. “Oh right! You’re travelers!”

The confusion was ceaseless.

“Welcome to 1981.” She smirked lightly, her hair bouncing as she strutted out of the alley. Once she noticed she’d been leaving the others behind, she turned back. “Follow along, gentlemen.”

Still a few pages behind, they followed her; although concerned by the fact that their destination was to be decided by a stranger. Still, they were lost in this era. They surely needed a friend.

 

“Where are you taking us, Ms. Douglas?” Ryan asked, just slightly behind Dallon.

“To see the sights.” She answered simply, then remained silent.

Although unsatiated with her vague answer, Ryan kept quiet, his eyes poking about for any danger. He still was keeping a watchful eye on that gun of hers.

Meanwhile, Dallon was absolutely trusting of this stranger, walking beside her without a care. It must have been something meaningful about her. Perhaps he read her stance while holding her weapon, or her eyes while inspecting the two of them. It must have been something logical, surely. 

On the way to whatever her idea of ‘the sights’ may be, Dallon saw a few odd sights of his own. The people of this era were quite flavorful when it came to hair, it seemed. Perhaps it served some purpose, like for protection from the cold; although the climate didn’t seem to have changed at all. “Ms. Douglas--”  
“Call me Breezy.”

Dallon nodded. “Breezy, could I ask what the date is?”

“It’s Valentine’s. Why do you ask?”

His brows furrowed. “I suspected our travel took us exactly twenty years, but we were broadcast in January.”

“Hm.” Breezy, although preoccupied in her own thoughts, nodded along. “I haven’t seen a traveler go so far before. Those instruments must be powerful things.”

“Are you saying you don’t have them here?”

“Oh, they’ve been banned for years.” 

Dallon’s heart dropped. This news shook him to his core, meanwhile Breezy appeared to be rather accustomed to the idea. “Well, then how do we go back? Are we trapped here? How could you have just--”

“All in due time, Dr. Weekes.” She continued her smirk as Dallon followed along in shock. “I’ll get you home. Don’t worry your sweet little head about it.”

And just like that, the horror was gone.

With the exception of a few ooh’s and ah’s at the new surroundings, the trip thereafter was silent. Ryan continued to lag behind, and, in fact, was far out of Dallon’s realm of consciousness. He was much too focused on Breezy. She was an interesting creature, quite succinct, and yet very telling in her demeanor. Surrounded in a cloud of mystery were all things most intriguing to the eye, especially for a scientist. 

“Here we are.” She claimed, but where were they exactly?  
Dallon inspected the building with wide eyes. It was quite an intimidating place, many stories tall, but desolate. “What’s this place?”

“Well, you should be the one to know, shouldn’t you?” With a cool movement, she swept the heavy doors aside and entered the building. “It’s your lab.”


End file.
